The Thing Is
by coffeebuddha
Summary: While doing a book tour shortly after leaving the BAU, Rossi runs into Hotch at a hotel. Set preseries.


The thing is, Dave's always been certain-some might even say stubborn and bullheaded-when it comes to what he wants. For the most part, he considers his wants to be pretty simple. Good food, good booze, good art. And, of course, he's always appreciated a good, warm body next to his.

_Warm_. Dave's pretty sure he should have more going through his mind right now than just that one word. After all, _wrong, adultery, fraternization_-because some mindsets are just too hard to get out of-and _finally _all spring to mind without too much prompting.

But even though there are all those alternative words.

Even though the mouth under his is biting and harsh instead of soft and yielding.

Even though the body under his hands is harder and flatter than his usual partners'.

Even though, even though, even though, the only thing he can really focus on is that he always knew Aaron would be this warm.

This isn't something that he had ever planned on happening. Thought about, maybe, but not planned. Aaron's never shown any sign that he's interested. If anything, he's almost always seemed stupidly happy in his marriage. In fact, it never even occurred to Dave that this might be a real option.

Not that this _is_ a real option. Something happening doesn't make it a valid decision. It just makes it a possible one.

* * *

This wasn't supposed to happen. He's in town for his book tour, not for _this__._ Of course, in all fairness, the dark circles under Aaron's eyes and the tightness at the corners of his mouth don't exactly scream 'I'm here for a vacation' either. It's a coincidence that they're in the same town at the same time. It's a bigger coincidence that they're staying at the same cheap hotel. It's damn near cliched that when Dave walked out of his room that morning, Aaron walked out of the one next door.

They barely had time for even the briefest formalities before Dave's publicist was yakking at his elbow about a book reading and the alarm on Aaron's watch was reminding him that he was about to be late for something important. Not that that matters, Dave tells himself as he sits at the hotel bar later that night, Aaron's drink ordered before the other man even enters the room. They know exactly where to find each other.

They don't talk much. What they do say is kept short, almost curt-just a few niceties that they don't really care about. Dave asks about Haley, but Aaron shakes his head, a flash of unexpected annoyance springing onto his face before his expression smooths out again. Neither of them bring up any of Dave's wives. It's not unexpected. They don't talk as much as they used to, but Aaron had already known that things weren't working out when Dave left the BAU, and he's still connected enough to the office grapevine that the younger man's probably heard about how he signed the paperwork a few weeks earlier.

Three failed marriages, Dave thinks as he sips his drink. Three failed marriages and shit all to show for it. He's middle aged and alone. Again.

And just like that, he's suddenly extremely aware of the heat Aaron's trim, athletic body is giving off.

Fuck.

The thing is that Dave's heard all the labels-working in a boy's club like the FBI means he knows every slur for gay that a relatively intelligent man can think of-but he's never considered applying them to himself. For one thing, he's too fucking set in his ways for some sexual midlife identity crisis. Sexual awakening? Whatever they're calling it these days. He knows what he likes. Usually it's a nice set of tits and a pair of long, shapely legs. Doesn't mean he can't appreciate the male form occasionally, especially if the form in question is connected to a sharp, intriguing mind.

The silence stretches too long and Aaron's watching him, his lips curved into something that's not a smile, but not hostile enough to be a sneer. Dave still hasn't had enough to drink to make the inevitable blowup bearable, but the bar's about to close, and Aaron's suggestion that they go back to his room just seems like good sense.

Neither of them are steady on their feet and they stumble into the elevator. It's old and creaky, and when it lurches, they end up colliding together, then bouncing apart. It only lasts a moment, but it's long enough for Dave to memorize the feel of the hard lines Aaron's hiding under his creased suit. They shuffle, glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes, play the part of two old friends who've had too much to drink but aren't ready to stop yet.

And really, Dave tells himself, it's true. After all, they are old friends. And maybe it's just the alcohol going to his head. He knows that Aaron's not happy with him right now-he could have told you that without being a profiler-and it's entirely possible that those slow, unblinking looks Aaron's been giving him since he sat down at the bar are completely innocent precursors to the yelling rant that he knows is headed his way. That's possible, right?

_Fuck._

They're barely in the room before Dave's rummaging in the minibar. He downs a shot sized bottle while he crouches in the cold, drafty air in front of the open door.

"I'm not paying for that," Aaron slurs behind him. Dave doesn't answer, just pulls all of the more palatable drinks out and dumps them on the bed. Aaron's standing by the head of the bed with his arms crossed, watching him with narrowed eyes, so after a second he digs in his back pocket for his wallet, pulls out a hundred, and drops it on top of the bottles.

"That should cover it," Dave says as he kicks off his shoes and moves to sit cross legged on the bed. He's halfway through his next drink when Aaron finally joins him, the small pile of plastic bottles creating a flimsy barrier them.

They don't bother with glasses, and Dave thinks about making some dumb crack about how the bottles make him feel like a giant-which, in his intoxicated state, they kind of do-but Aaron's still just _looking_ at him, his already dark eyes getting even darker with each sip he takes. Dave isn't certain how much he's had to drink, but most of the bottles are empty and Aaron's been rolling one between his palms for a good five minutes when he finally glares at the younger man and demand, "What, Aaron? You've been dying to say something to me since this morning. Stop dancing around the subject and just fucking _say it_ already."

Aaron still doesn't blink, but his eyes have the slightly glazed look of the truly shitfaced and the bottle rolls unnoticed off of the tips of his fingers. His mouth opens and shuts a few times, but he eventually just squints at the wall behind Dave and shrugs. Dave's good at getting pissed off-another benefit of having three ex-wives-and the exasperated sigh he exhales as he rolls off the bed is a goddamn work of art. If Aaron was even a fraction more sober, he might have appreciated it at least a little.

The sink is stuck in one of those little extraneous alcoves that Dave's never understood-why not just put it in with the toilet and shower like a normal bathroom?-and he's bent over it drinking straight from the faucet when the mattress creaks. He glances in the mirror and locks eyes with Aaron as he stumbles off the bed, all his usual grace gone, and ambles up behind him. Dave turns and leans against the counter, hoping that it looks like he's doing it to be casual and not because he needs the support. Aaron doesn't stop advancing until they're nearly touching-noses, chests, knees, toes. This close, Dave can see all the emotions mixed in his friend's eyes.

Confusion.

Anger.

Hurt.

"You want to know what's pissing me off," Aaron asks, as if he's responding immediately instead of minutes later. It would be awkward under different circumstances, but right now Dave just smirks his 'I'm a bastard and I know it' smirk.

"Well, sunshine, I did ask. And trust me, you're not pretty enough for me to be striking up a random conversation just because, so I guess that means, _yeah__,_ I would like to know why you're about ready to rip my damn head off right now."

"Fine. I should have told you a long time ago. Sometimes, you make me want to punch you in the face, Dave. You're so smug and happy and you _don't care__._ Nothing seems to _bother _you anymore. Your wife walks out on you and you treat it like it's barely more than an inconvenience. Like it's trivial! You're a _bastard__, _Dave. You left," he says, and the words sound broken and painful like they're being physically pried out of him. "We-_I_ needed you, and you just left. And you don't even fucking care!"

Aaron's hands are fisted in the front of Dave's shirt and he's leaning most of his weight against him. His hot, uneven breath against Dave's mouth is almost, but not quite, enough to distract him from the sharp edge of the counter digging into his back. He rolls his hips, partially in an attempt to get Aaron to back off and partially to relieve some of the pressure that's threatening the well being of his spinal cord. The response he gets isn't what he was expecting. Instead of moving back, Aaron presses even closer and slams their mouths together.

The stale taste of mixed alcohol is almost nauseating, Aaron's mouth is brutal as it attacks his, and the faux-marble counter is probably going to leave a permanent imprint in his back, but Dave barely notices, because, in all the chaos, his first thought is of how warm Aaron feels against him.

Aaron will regret this in the morning. Sure, they can pretend that it never happened, go about their lives as if nothing's changed, but Dave knows deep in his gut that if he lets this continue, Aaron will blame himself and the guilt of betraying Haley will color every meeting they have after this one.

Dave's never claimed that he isn't a selfish bastard.

Aaron's short hair is a little coarse and prickly under his palm, his calloused hands are gripping and pulling hard enough that Dave already knows he's going to be sporting bruises in the morning, and the way that he's rutting against Dave's thigh speaks more of his need to release the angry energy that's coiling inside of him than any desire for mutual satisfaction. Dave doesn't care. He's wanted this-never thought it would happen, but he _had_ wanted it-almost since he met the other man for the first time. He tilts his head to the side so that their noses aren't smashed together anymore, and when Aaron's tongue flicks against the roof of his mouth, he groans into the kiss and pulls the younger man closer.

There's nothing pretty or tender about the way they use each other. When he bites and sucks his way down Aaron's neck, Dave's careful not to leave any marks or bruises on his skin that he'd have to explain, but Aaron doesn't feel bound by the same constraints. His fingers dig painfully into Dave's sides, shoulders, back, and he sucks bruises on top of bruises along Dave's neck and jaw. Dave fumbles at their belts, but Aaron slaps his hands away and grumbles something under his breath as he undoes buttons and zippers and pushes their clothes out of the way so that what had been the rough friction of cotton is replaced by the heady slide of damp skin against skin.

"What was that?" Dave asks a little breathlessly as he spreads his legs wider so that Aaron can press up against him easier.

"I said," Aaron growls low in his ear, "I am so pretty enough that you'd try to pick me up. You're not the only one who notices things, you know." Dave's head falls back and his breath shudders out as Aaron licks a line up his neck to nip at his earlobe, his hand roughly working their cocks.

Dave presses the flat of his hand against the small of Aaron's back, trying to bring him even closer. "Aaron," he says pleadingly. He doesn't know exactly what he's trying to ask for, but Aaron snorts contemptibly and strokes faster.

"If I'd done this sooner, would you have stayed?" Aaron threads his fingers into Dave's hair and tugs sharply on it as he kisses him again.

Dave wants to answer that, but it's hard to think straight with Aaron's hand on his cock, and even harder to talk with his tongue in his mouth.

Aaron twists his wrist and slides his thumb over the head of Dave's cock. The alcohol had made him feel loose and easy, but when Aaron squeezes and scrapes his teeth over his lower lip, his muscles tighten and he comes hard in Aaron's hand. It would be embarrassing that he came so quickly-the phrase 'that hasn't happened to me since I was a teenager' probably would have been uttered-but any potential awkwardness is pushed out of his mind by the small grunts that Aaron's making against his mouth as he thrusts into the sticky, hot circle of his hand, his body shuddering hard against Dave's.

His body goes completely still and tense for a long moment before Aaron slumps against Dave and murmurs something incomprehensible into his neck. In the time it takes Dave to catch his breath, Aaron's has deepened and evened out, and his body is dead weight against him. Dave prods him in the side, but he just curls into him more. Not wanting to leave him on the floor, Dave manhandles Aaron over to the bed and lets him fall backward onto it, although he's careful to steer clear of the pile of mostly empty bottles. Dave considers trying to wake him up long enough so that he can clean himself off, but when all of his attempts end with Aaron mumbling unintelligibly and flailing a resisting arm, he ends up just stripping him of his soiled pants and dress shirt. He probably won't be too comfortable in the morning, but Dave would wager that he'd be even less comfortable with the idea of Dave seeing him naked and vulnerable.

Dave smooths Aaron's hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead. Aaron smiles in his sleep and sighs out, "Haley." A rueful smile spreads across Dave's face and he slips out of Aaron's room and into his own, where he cleans himself up, packs, and catches a short nap before he has to leave for his 3am flight to Dallas.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.**

This was originally written for a kinkmeme over on LJ. The prompt was "Hotch/Rossi, angry one-nighter after Rossi leaves the BAU"

Nothing belongs to me.


End file.
